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wise to mention that she was far more capable of carrying luggage than a woman of Marie’s age, so she did as she was told and followed her inside.
    The moment Laurel stepped into the foyer and saw the grand staircase curving upward to the second-, then the third-floor landings, she had a feeling of déjà vu. She looked down at the pink-marble flooring and then up at the flocked but fading designs on the wine-colored wallpaper and could remember playing jacks in a corner of the foyer and hearing her mother’s laughter nearby. From where she was standing, she could see into two different rooms, and both appeared to have been furnished with pieces straight out of a museum. Moments later, the door swung shut behind her. The thud echoed within the three-story foyer like a shot. Even though she knew it had been nothing but a draft that made the door swing shut, she had to shake off the feeling of having been entombed.
    “Welcome to Mimosa Grove,” Marie said, then added, “Welcome home. You come this way to your rooms.”
    Laurel felt a ridiculous urge to cry. If only this place would be the home she’d never had. Then she realized Marie was already halfway up the staircase and hurried to follow.
    Almost immediately, she was struck by a faint feeling of despair. The farther up she went, the stronger the emotion became. A few steps shy of the first landing, she was forced to stop. She grabbed onto the stair rail and closed her eyes, physically unable to move any farther.
    The house was silent, only the sound of her own breathing could be heard, and yet the sobs of a woman were vivid in her ears. At that point she was wondering if she’d made a mistake in coming and toyed with the thought of returning shamefaced to her father. Within seconds of the thought the crying stopped, and she felt as if she was being urgently begged to stay.
    Suddenly Marie was at her side, her bony fingers curling around Laurel’s wrist.
    “Tell her who you are and then say a prayer for her,” she said swiftly. “Say it now.”
    Laurel’s legs went weak. “Say a prayer?”
    Marie nodded briefly. “ Oui, quickly now,” she urged.
    “For whom?” Laurel asked.
    “For the lost soul,” Marie said.
    Ignoring the ridiculousness of the order and accepting that she was out of her element in this strange but wonderful place, Laurel did as she’d been told.
    “I’m Laurel, Marcella’s granddaughter,” she whispered, and heard the fear in her own voice. Then she began to murmur, asking God for forgiveness and blessings for any and all who lingered here, beseeching those who were lost to go toward the light.
    Almost immediately, the heaviness that had weighed on her heart was gone. She opened her eyes and then started to shake. Marie was still standing at her side, still clutching her wrist.
    “My God!” Laurel asked. “What just happened?”
    Marie shrugged. “I am sorry. I should have told you sooner. It won’t happen again, now that the house knows who you are.”
    The skin on the back of Laurel’s neck began to crawl, as if plagued by a thousand tiny ants.
    “What do you mean, now that the house knows?”
    Again Marie shrugged. “Forgive me…that was a poor choice of words. But Mimosa Grove is old, and with age come eccentricities. She has seen much happiness…and much sadness in her time. Even though physical bodies of previous residents no longer exist, the echoes of their laughter and grief are still here for those who are sensitive enough to feel. I should have thought to warn you.” Then she smiled, and the action shifted a thousand wrinkles on her face into new positions. “Like Mimosa Grove, I, too, suffer a lapse now and then.”
    Laurel tried to smile back, but she was too shocked to speak.
    “You come now,” Marie urged. “Lie down for just a bit. I’ll call you when it’s time for the evening meal.”
    Laurel let herself be led up the stairs, then down the hall, as if she were a child. It wasn’t until Marie